In Halcyon Days
by Watanabe Maya
Summary: Love is such a lonely thing, but the night has always been much kinder to him. \\ AoKise.


**A/N:** So I've been swamped with graphic design commissions for the past few weeks and I just really needed to de-stress instead of constantly drowning in my work. Here's a relatively short little something that I did in an attempt to do that. This plot bunny has been on my mind for months now, but I had no idea how to work around it. Even now I don't know if I did the right thing or if this even makes sense (hopefully, despite my intended attempts of ambiguity and vagueness, it still will/does.) I didn't even consider shipping AoKise before, until Ha-chan introduced me to the concept of it and I discovered the wonderful heart-hurty works of VoiSieteQui – _who never failed to make me cry with "ricochet" every fucking time good job you talented sadist._

I followed French punctuation here for the dialogue. It was hassle to constantly try typing up guillemets with my not-always-cooperative keyboard, though, so I just stuck to working with dashes instead. Despite the lack of quotation marks, I also had the dialogue written in italics to make things a little clearer (and also for artistic/convenient aesthetical purposes, which you will soon understand when you finish reading this fic.)

The title _Halcyon Days_ (which I had recently discovered and absolutely / _love_ /) is an idiomatic expression that alludes to a period of calm and is somewhat nostalgic, kind of like a very happy or successful period in the past. This will make sense to you more a little later, but I warn you that THIS IS NOT A HAPPY STORY.

 **Disclaimer:** _I don't own KuroBasu._

* * *

 ** _In Halcyon Days_**

 ** _._**

The mind is a dark, dark place to be in; especially at times such as these – forty minutes past two in the morning, the loneliest of all hours.

Ryouta should be coming home soon. In fact, he should've been home around three hours ago.

 _See you at half past eleven,_ the young blonde had said to him earlier today before he headed off to work, a simple yet solemn promise uttered through a phone call by raspy whispers on morning breath lips and pixels of cellphone texts, peppered with excited emojis on LED screens. It is not unnatural for a man of his career. Pilots very rarely work on set eight-am-to-five-pm schedules, unlike Daiki who is compelled to clock in a solid rate of nine office hours on a daily basis to ensure a stable pay. But today Ryouta is late, and Daiki is not a man built with much tolerance, nor endurance to attempt patience.

 _[-ing…news… interr…upt…this…pro…am, to…spe…report… earli—]_

The television drones on, ambient noise filling the hallway and wafting through the atmosphere in the near distance. The words are almost inaudible against the loudness of Daiki's mind. They go in him through one ear and right out the other.

Dinner rests on the stove, untouched. Unnoticed.

 _[…eve, May se…ven…th…10:06…pm to—]_

When the minute hand ticks to a definite fifty, the blue-haired man ponders the possibility of waiting another ten more before he'll call the cops to file a missing person's report. By then, he has lost two minutes chasing these thoughts, followed by another one minute, which he wastes panicking over the sudden ringing of the doorbell that jolts him out of his stupor and breaks him away from his journey of contemplation.

 _– Tadaima!_ a voice hollers from behind the entrance door. It is cheery and bright, Daiki ruminates, just like its owner.

(It's Ryouta's.)

 _– Took you long enough, idiot_.

Daiki scolds as soon as he opens the door. He is greeted by the sight of the shorter blonde boy, all pale skin and rosy cheeks, hands stuffed in his pockets to ward off the chill. Ryouta shoots him a quizzical look, bemused.

 _– What are you talking about, Aominecchi?_

 _– You promised me you'd be back by eleven thirty. It's already two in the morning, Kise. You're late._

 _– Oh –_ nervous laughter – _Uhm…. –_ sheepish smiles – _I… –_ a drop of sweat – _Sorry 'bout that._

 _– Damn right you're sorry. You should be._

The blonde hovers by the door, peering closer with bright, eager eyes. _Well…uh, aren't you going to invite me inside?_

 _– Ha_? A smirk. _Why should I? You broke your promise. I should just leave you out as punishment._

 _– But…but—you're cruel, Aominecchi!_ the pilot whines, flailing his hands dramatically to the taller man in a theatrical gesture of terror. _I came all the way here just to see you and it's cold out. Won't you be worried I'll get sick?_

 _– Doesn't the saying go: idiots don't catch colds? I've got nothing to worry about then when it comes to you, Kise._ Daiki rebuts, deadpan. _You're stupid, after all._

 _– But think of the time difference, Aomine—_

 _– What about it? It doesn't change the fact that you're stupid…and you're late._

 _– I just drove a flight back from Kathmandu. It's still half past eleven there._

Ryouta mentions, and he beams at Daiki a taunting grin, mischievous and proud in his attempt to outsmart him. His mouth stretches wide like the Cheshire cat, teeth bright in coats of fluorescent and the yellow of moonlight.

 _– Yeah, yeah. Whatever._

Daiki grumbles, but he bites back a smile. He holds the door open for him; lending a hand to drag the boy's suitcase inside the flat.

 _– Say what you want, dumbass. But I ain't buying your silly little excuses._

.

Ryouta plops down onto the dining table chair, resting his elbows on the pine wooden surface. He grabs the remote, flips through the channels 'til he settles for the music network. The television tells him it's _Bossa Nova Night_ ; the program plays a rendition of Astrud Gilberto. Ryouta hums. Daiki croons.

 _– You know, Aominecchi,_ Ryouta catches him off-guard and interrupts himself from belting out mid-tune. _We should still celebrate. Whaddaya say?_

 _– Too late,_ Daiki frowns. _It's over. Done. Finished._

 _– Not in Kathmandu, it isn't._

Ryouta grins. The clock reads a little ten past three am.

 _– Yeah? Well, we're in Tokyo right now, Kise. Get over Nepal and get with the times._

 _– But Aominecchi…I wanted to welcome the day with you. C'mon. I even got us cake!_

The former model pouts and pleads and gently bats at his eyes. He's done this way too many times that Daiki has grown immune to its efficiency, however, but Ryouta still does it anyway. It's childish, but also somewhat endearing, almost, that the taller boy cannot resist the urge to deny him so.

 _– You_ bought _cake?_ Daiki remarks; incredulous. _Wow, someone's really pulling out all the stops tonight. Was it payday?_

 _– No…and yes._

 _– You're confusing me. Explain things better._

 _– Well it_ was _payday today,_ the blonde boy proceeds to elucidate, _but I didn't_ buy _the cake per se. It was a gift._

Daiki cocks an eyebrow in false askance.

 _– …Was this another one of your flight steward fangirls again?_

The shorter boy grins.

 _– Yep! Once a model, always a model, I say. You know they can't resist my charm._

 _– Seriously, Kise,_ the taller man feigns a sigh, _who accepts a cake from another_ girl _and uses it as blowout material they're celebrating their anniversary with their_ boyfriend _?_

 _– Uhm, I do...?_

 _– Yes. Exactly, you big idiot._ You _do._

 _– This way's thriftier,_ the former model answers thoughtfully, _don't you think?_

 _– You're unbelievable._

 _–_ _Oh hush,_ Ryouta chides, _you love me for it._

The boy with the flaxen hair takes the opportunity to steal Daiki away with a kiss in this very moment, a chaste peck pressed atop his forehead. His lips brush cold against the heated flush of the younger boy's tanned skin. But this moment is golden, Daiki thinks, like a dream he'd neither wish nor want for it to end. The blue-haired boy wraps his arms around the other's lithe frame, and their hands find their way to each other, gripping tightly without the doomed promise of letting go.

Ryouta smiles against him; his expression is warm, rich and brilliant, with the glimmer of gold and the softness of honey.

 _–_ _I do,_ Daiki replies. _All the more._

.

 _(A whisper.)_

 _– Happy anniversary, Aominecchi!_

.

 _(A smile.)_

 _– Happy anniversary, Kise._

 _._

 _(A kiss.)_

 _– I love you!_

.

 _(And both.)_

 _—You too…dumbass._

 _._

The night has always been kinder to him.

(Who knew love could be so lonely?)

 _._

 _– I'm sorry,_ Ryouta whispers to him at last, his voice perceivably loud against the quiet of the night. Daiki sucks in a breath he never knew he was holding.

 _– For what?_

 _– I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted me to be._

His mind races amidst the thrumming of his pulsing heartbeat, the dampness of his sweat-slicked sheets, the labyrinth of their tangled limbs; Daiki's lashes flutter shut, before very quickly, does he open them again.

 _– What? A prodigy? My apprentice? Teiko's ace? You know that doesn't matter anymore, Kise. I don't even care about those things._

 _– No, Aominecchi, you big stupid idiot,_ Ryouta shakes his head and smiles sadly. Almost by instinct, their fingers intertwine. His expression morphs and twists underneath the light. This time, he is delicate; fragile, like petals of a sunflower wilting in the rain.

Daiki leans in closer, willing away the stinging pinpricks from behind his corneas. _Then what?_

 _– What do you mean? I don't understand, Kise. I just…_

 _– You know what I mean, Aomine,_ Ryouta answers and shushes him then. _Look: in Nepal, it's almost midnight._

And when the golden boy's lips fall and touch and finally meet _his_ , only then does Daiki allow himself to close his eyes.

.

Daiki wakes up alone to the sound of silence, in the quiet company of the morning sun and alabaster sky.

The clock reads nine-oh-two-am; though his shift doesn't start until later at ten. The blue-haired boy squints his eyes and stares at the ceiling, shifting in his place; presses his face against cold cotton and wool. His hands grasp at the empty air, spreads his limbs to fill the space where Ryouta's should've been.

It's funny how words work sometimes, how one can speak so much louder than a thousand many others.

 _– Sorry,_ the blue-eyed boy murmurs, plays back the memory of his dream, of empty sheets and songs of solitude; shared confessions relived softly by a man who'd always waited, and who'd always lie alone.

 _((I'm sorry I couldn't be what you wanted me to be.))_

And when Daiki tries to finish it off with the word he knew Ryouta had always meant to tell him, only then does he grant himself a moment to cry.

.

((— _Alive_.))

.

.

.

 _[Breaking News: We interrupt this program to bring you a special report._ _Japan Airlines Aircraft 777 Flight Number JL036, a passenger plane, has crashed in steep, mountainous terrain about 93 miles northeast of Kathmandu earlier today at 10:06pm GMT, the eve of May seventh. Of the 46 passengers that were on board this tragedy, there were 9 casualties in total – 2 injured and the remaining dead. Neither Captain Kasamatsu Yukio nor Co-Pilot Kise Ryouta were spared their lives during this unfortunate incident; at present, communication is being relayed to and from the survivors…]_

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* * *

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I know, I know…this was so /cliché/ HAHAHAHAHAHAH i'm sorry I couldn't resist. I just really wanted to try doing something like this. I don't know how to feel about how it turned out, but I'm just glad it's done. This parallels the hollow feeling I have inside my weakened spirit and deadened soul now that the anime has finished airing. I probably should have a lot more explaining to do, lol, but I don't really know so just pm me if you have any questions that weren't answered/remained unresolved/could not be picked up by the subtle hints I tried to drop around in the fic.

 **Also, please leave a review those are always great and I love to hear from you guys. :) :)**

(Extra note: According to google, Japan is 3 hours and 15 minutes ahead of Nepal. If it's 2:54 AM in Tokyo, it's still 11:39 PM in Kathmandu.)


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